


Proud of Me

by lumenbriide



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Drama, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, daddy!Bats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10693824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumenbriide/pseuds/lumenbriide
Summary: Recently after 'returning from the dead', Batman finds himself confronted with a grieving eldest son, who is falling apart after a mission gone wrong strips him of another loved one. Can the Batman handle being Bruce long enough to save Nightwing, Dick Grayson, from shattering completely?





	Proud of Me

NIGHTWING (DICK)

“Please, please no… No, no, no, no, no…” His breath came out in white puffs of cold air as he brought his own lips upon the still, slightly blue ones beneath him. He remembered all the times this cold mouth would meet his own in a passionate kiss, and the tears threatened to spill once more. He blew more air into the motionless lungs and then restarted his chest compressions. “Babs, c’mon. You gotta give me a sign here. Barbara, please…”

Nothing. 

The girl’s skin was pale white, hair lying limply on the concrete floor, the same shade of dark crimson as the blood that stained her black, skin-tight suit. When Barbara Gordon, aka Batgirl, continued to not respond, Nightwing paused in his CPR and stared desperately at the body, running one of his black gloved hands through her tangled hair. “Babs, please.” His voice had dropped to a faint whisper. “Please, wake up.”

 Nothing.

 That’s when the dark-skinned, webbed hand of Kaldur’Ahm was clasped onto the younger man’s shoulder, squeezing gently as the Atlantian knelt near the pair. “Nightwing,” he whispered, silver eyes swimming with emotion. “I-I’m sorry, my friend. She is gone.”

 Nightwing looked away from his friend and back down to the still figure lying before him, the dead body of the only girl he had ever loved. Part of him wanted to scream in denial, restart the CPR until his arms fell off, maybe until he too joined her in death. But it had been nearly a half hour already, the gun shot that had ended the brave girl having gone straight through her abdomen and out her back, severing her spinal cord. Killed instantly.

 Masked eyes wandered over to his hands, which he held palm upwards, covered in Barbara’s slowly congealing blood. Suddenly, he wanted to throw up, and swayed on his knees weakly. Kaldur immediately noticed this and wrapped both arms around the smaller hero, bringing the boy into a feeble embrace. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he repeated, tone still barely audible as he breathed the words into his friend’s ear.

 Dick Grayson clung to the older man as if he were a life line. He finally let the salty tears roll down his cheeks from behind his mask, and buried his head into Kaldur’s neck, wishing at that moment to just disappear from the face of the Earth. To go and join Barbara, wherever she was now. It hurt – it hurt too much where he was now. Two years ago he had lost Wally, his best friend. Then, Batman was pronounced dead for over a year. Even though the Dark Knight had reappeared a month or so ago, the nightmares still plagued him. Tormented him with false realities, making him believe that everything recently occurred had been a dream, and that Bruce Wayne was still dead. That his father was still dead. Only when he saw for himself that Gotham’s protector was actually standing before him, very much alive, did he manage to relax; until the next night, at least.

 And now Barbara had been taken from him. First his parents, then Jason, then Wally and Bruce. And now Barbara.

 How much more was the world going to rip from his arms until Richard (Dick) Grayson finally snapped completely?

* * *

BATMAN (BRUCE)

“Team, report.” The Dark Knight’s voice was lowered to a deep-throated growl, since this was his third time trying to get a response from Young Justice. Leather-gloved fingers drummed impatiently on the dashboard as he fiddled with the antenna on the comm, as if that were the source of the problem. He stood rigid and tense, as usual, in the communications room of the Watchtower, where Superman and Black Canary stood behind him, equally worried.

 _Why aren’t they answering? They should’ve called in by now. They would’ve, if everything went as planned. Nightwing wouldn’t make us wait like this. This is his first mission since I’ve been back… Something must’ve gone wrong. I **must have** or he would’ve called in. Damn me, for letting the team go without any supervision. _Batman came very close to throwing the comm away and going after the young superhero team himself until the voice of Superboy, Conner Kent, finally blared from the speakers. “Y.J. to J.L.”

Batman snarled, clicking /RESPOND/ on his comm. “You had better have a good explanation for your lack of response.” Though he tried shaking the feeling off, something in his gut clenched a bit. _Did someone get hurt? Dick? Timmy? Why is the mini Boy Scout checking in instead of Dick?_ Inside, his heart began racing; but his form still remained perfectly poised and intimidating as he heard Conner hesitate.

Finally, he got an answer. “Something happened,” the metahuman deadpanned. “Batgirl… She got shot.”

Gasps erupted from behind, but the Knight ignored them completely. “What’s her situation?” _Barbara… Dick must be going crazy. I should’ve gone with the team! I knew this would be a tough mission, tougher than most. Why didn’t I go, or at least send Boy Scout with them?_

No reply from the other side, and Batman let out another growl. “Superboy?” His voice was sharp, crisp, and ice cold.

“She’s… She’s dead.”

 _No_. The knot in his abdomen tightened significantly, threatening to rise into his throat and suffocate him. He heard Black Canary give a little cry of shock behind them, and knew that Superman was studying his every move, looking for any sign of a bad reaction. Refusing to give him one, he took only a second to take a deep breath and shove the nausea away before replying. “What about the others?” _Dick…_ An image of his eldest son came to mind, a memory of him laughing and joking with the pretty Barbara Gordon, who had obviously stolen the boy’s heart… Batman shoved that recollection away to. A time for grieving would come later. He had to get the rest of the young heroes home safe.

“Minor injuries, bruising, cuts, along that line,” Superboy confirmed. “Nothing serious. Miss Martian has the bioship returning to Watch Tower now, but…”

“But what?”

“Robin and Nightwing asked to dropped off in Gotham. I’m assuming they’re going straight to the Batcave.”

“Fine.” No, everything was far from fine, but he couldn’t be Batman if he started losing it in front of other heroes. “Batman out.”

The comm went dead, and swirling around on his heels, the Dark Knight speed-walked towards the zeta tubes. He didn’t need to turn around in order to know that Superman was close behind him

“Bruce,” the Kryptonian began. “I’m so…”

“No names in costume,” Batman ground out, as if chastising a little kid.

Superman frowned but went on. “ _Batman_ , I’m so sorry about Batgirl.”

“They will be bringing her here, to be prepared for funeral,” he replied mechanically. “I must get to the cave. I’m entrusting you to handle her… preparation…”

“Of course.”

Coordinates were punched into the key pad, and then Batman stepped up onto the platform that would transport him back to Gotham. To home. Superman watched him with sorrow swirling in his eyes. “Tell Dick I…”

“I know.” Batman once again cut him off, and gave him a stiff nod of his head before light encased the Bat’s form, and he disappeared from the Watchtower.

//RECOGNIZING: BATMAN, A-01//

When his eyes beneath the cowl, he was in the Batcave. Quickly walking down the small set of steps, Batman crossed the damp room over to the computer area. A quick look at the logs told him his two sons had yet to arrive home.

 _They must’ve been dropped off on the far side of Gotham, and are walking to the zeta tubes there_ , he mused, sitting down on one of the wheeled chairs. He contemplated taking off the cowl, and then settled for leaving it on. If he took it off, Bruce Wayne would appear; and while the Batman could take grief and death in stride, Bruce couldn’t. And he didn’t want to start cracking up just yet – not until he saw how Tim and Dick were handling it. _Dick…_ His mind strayed yet again to how his oldest child must be handling it. Wasn’t it only two years since his best friend had been disintegrated in front of his very eyes? And technically, Batman himself had only returned from the dead two months ago. Returning to the real world after a year of zapping back and forth between time streams had been… difficult. Coming back to discover a Gotham darker than usual, with a devastated Dick Grayson struggling to fill in his mentor’s shoes with Damian Wayne the new Robin… He couldn’t shake that picture from his mind, the pained expressions that were plastered to his boys’ faces when he saw them for the first time in over a year. There had been shock, doubt, and then the joy had come; but it wasn’t enough to cover the heartbreak each obviously had suffered during his absence. Even Red Hood, Jason Todd, the angry rebel child, had seemed almost relieved at the real Batman’s return.

Dick had been a good Batman, but he wasn’t the Dark Knight. At heart, Dick was kind, bright, brilliant, and sensitive. Posing as an emotionless, terrifying Bat of Gotham must’ve been quite a struggle. Yet Bruce had felt a strange, warm feeling envelope his chest as he heard that Dick had managed to pull of being the Dark Knight well, with Damian as his Robin. Heck, they’d even managed to put the Joker behind bars without him. The corners of Batman’s lips curved upward just the tiniest bit. Damian hadn’t been thrilled about his father taking up the cowl again and Dick returning to Bludhaven as Nightwing. _Dick got through to that stubborn boy, where everyone else would’ve given up_ … Once again, his heart went out for the son he knew would be shattered and broken at Barbara Gordon’s death. _How had it happened?_

//REGOGNIZING: NIGHTWING, B-01. RED ROBIN, B-02//

 _Calm before the storm_. Batman stood up, and walked over to the tubes just as the forms of his two boys materialized from the transporter. As soon as he was on solid ground, Nightwing took a step forward and ripped the domino mask from his face, flinging the flexible piece of his uniform off to the side like trash. Red Robin, Tim Drake, stood behind his older brother a bit shy, rubbing his right arm. Both boys sported a fair amount of bruises and scratches, but Batman was put at ease when he saw no further injuries.

Dick had his gaze on the ground now, glaring lasers into the stones beneath him. Batman watched for a moment before turning to Tim, giving the slightest gesture of his head towards the cave. Bat-language, something only those growing up with Bruce Wayne would understand. Tim gave a barely noticeable nod of his in return, and the fifteen-year-old strode off towards the showers, where he could clean up and take off his uniform before entering Wayne Manor.

That left Batman and Dick alone in the cave, uncomfortably silent for several long, dreadful moments before the younger of the two finally looked up, his tormented gaze resting on the masked Knight. Batman felt hypnotized under the powerful gaze of those intense blue eyes, which shone with still-unshed tears. The boy studied his face, almost as if searching for something. _What are you looking for Dickie? Talk to me. Say something. I’m here_. His heart leapt with sympathy for his son, but his Batman persona was still in play, leaving his features blank and stony.

Something in Dick’s face changed, hardened, making Batman’s frown deepened. This, in turn, made the younger inhale a shaky, trembling breath before talking.

“I’m going to shower.”

He did a fair job in keeping his voice steady and low. Batman eyed him critically, knowing the child well enough to tell when he was trying to outrun the pain, shying away from it in hopes that maybe, just maybe, he would actually be able to hide from it. But holding him back wouldn’t do any good, outright talking to him so soon might be the wrong move, and maybe a hot shower would help Dick clear his mind enough so that when Bruce was ready to talk, he would be ready. Batman gave a single, wordless, nod – which Dick returned, and then turned and exited the cave, walking through the same doorway his younger brother had entered minutes before.

Once he was gone, Batman slowly lifted his hands and shoved the mask off his forehead. And then there stood Bruce Wayne, father to four boys whom had managed to capture his love – the light side of the Batman personality. Face tired and stretched from the newest turn of events, he began slipping out of his cape, removing the uniform so that when Dick was ready, he would be waiting.

* * *

BRUCE

Bruce waited in the darkness of his bedroom, lying underneath the top blanket but still awake. It was two in the morning – his boys had returned two hours ago, but he hadn’t seen them since their arrival. Bruce didn’t push, didn’t seek them out. He was exhausted from his last patrol earlier, also with dealing with Barbara’s sudden death, and waiting to speak with his oldest son in bed wasn’t worthy of any criticism. He knew from years with the boy that Dick would come to him when he was ready. Memories of nights holding the small child came to mind, memories of when he would hold and let the then tiny boy cry in his arms after a horrible nightmare or hellish vision. Why did Dick, who always experienced so much death and loss, have to be so sensitive? So vulnerable to the horrors the world had to offer, and then be so affected by then.

 _Well, if he were like me, like Batman, emotionless and distant, he wouldn’t be Dickie_ , Bruce reasoned in his mind as he turned on his side for more comfort. Damn. He felt his eyelids growing heavy. _C’mon Dickie, where are you. I know how bad you’re hurting right now. I understand. You know I understand. Where are you, baby, come to me…_

He may be the Dark Knight of Gotham, the seemingly dead-like shadow of terror; but Bruce Wayne was quite opposite. Playboy billionaire during the day, Batman by night. But his feelings towards the four unique children he had raised didn’t change despite the split personality – when Batman, he simply hid them behind a mask. But he was Bruce now, so he quietly continued to wish his eldest to come to me.

Miss Martian and Martian Manhunter might’ve ended up jealous of Bruce’s sudden psychic skills if they witnessed the creaking of the bedroom door only a few minutes later. Bruce heard it, but remained still, trying to judge just how bad his son was. He heard the door open a bit more, and then pause. A few moments ticked by, and he could tell Dick was torn between trying to act ‘like an adult’ and leave, or give into his instincts and run to his foster father’s side.

After a full two minutes passed, Bruce sighed quietly and sat up slightly on the mattress. Yes, there was Dick in the doorway, the darkness concealing most of his lithe frame but not dimming the shimmering wetness in his eyes. Bruce locking gazes with him seemed to be enough for the boy, for he took a few steps into the room before stopping.

Bruce gazed at him with sad eyes, knowing Dick was seconds away from just completely falling to pieces. He gently patted the spot on the mattress near him, and after a half second of hesitation, the boy came forward and laid on top the large, maroon comforter. Bruce turned onto his other side so he could be face to face with the boy, and immediately extended both his arms when he saw that Dick was shaking violently, breathing coming out quick and rapid, his eyes wide and watery.

“Dick, Dickie…” Bruce murmured, pulling the boy close like he used to when he had been a small nine-year-old. He remembered not knowing if he was fit to be a father then; now, he knew what Dick needed. The young man trembled uncontrollably in his embrace, and Bruce’s fingers automatically began running the glossy, raven haired strands of the boy’s hair, still a bit damp from his bathing. The other hand was draped across his shoulders, keeping him close, as if Bruce were trying to protect him from the whole world. Maybe he was. He quietly began murmuring, trying to calm the boy down. Batman was gone, replaced completely by Bruce Wayne.

“Shhh, Dickie, calm down,” he mumbled gently, frowning when Dick’s breathing didn’t slow. Afraid he would begin to hyperventilate, he made to pull away so he could see him better in the moonlight; but Dick clung to the front of his shirt, refusing to be moved any farther from his father. “Don’t go, please don’t go,” was the muffled sob, and the arm was immediately back around his thin frame.

 _Oh, Dick…_ “I’m not leaving,” he assured him quietly as Dick lost control of his tears, finally releasing them fully as he sobbed bitterly. Bruce continued to hold the boy that had started it all, the Robins, the Bat family, and tried his best to mutter soothing words.

Five minutes ticked by with just Bruce’s whispering and Dick’s crying before the younger of the two managed to slow down his sobs, reducing them to painful gasps with tears still trailing down his cheeks. He kept his face pressed against Bruce’s t-shirt, feeling slightly ashamed for soaking the article of clothing but mostly not caring. Because he wanted to just forget about all that and go back in time, be the nine-year-old orphan boy who would crawl into his ward’s bed after a nightmare or hard assignment as Robin, and be consoled by Bruce’s at first nervous but then firm, meaningful attempts at soothing the child.

The dreadful, chilling feeling clawed at his heart and mind, trying to choke him, drag him down into the dark abyss below and drown him. His gasps became more desperate, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to regain his breath but unable to. He felt Bruce push him away, and brought his knees to his chest, still gasping and then soon coughing.

“Dick, Dickie, calm down!” Bruce was sitting now – he felt the weight on the mattress shift, and then two strong, familiar hands had grasped his shoulders and pulled him also into a sitting position before bringing him close against the other man’s chest. The new position helped the oxygen enter his lungs easier, and slowly, he felt taking breaths easier, less painful. The needles attacking his chests became fewer and lesser.

Bruce slowly rocked back and forth, trying to keep his heart from pounding as he rubbed circles against his son’s thin but athletic back, sighing in relief when he felt Dick struggle less for air. Once he was sure that he was done hyperventilating, he stopped rocking and simply sat there with Dick leaning against his chest, sinking into the rare embrace offered by the Knight of Gotham.

Finally, Bruce’s ears heard the tiny whisper from below.

“It’s my fault.”

 _No, no, don’t start this, Dickie, not now_ … “Don’t,” he replied immediately, wrapping his arms tighter around the young man. “Don’t do that, Dickie, don’t say that.” _He blames himself for everything, all the time. Don’t do it to yourself this time, baby, it’ll tear you apart._ “It’s not…”

“It is!” The cry was so loud and forced and so full of agony that Bruce started a bit, so that he was unprepared for when Dick sat up and shoved himself away from him, collapsing on the other side of the bed, face down in the blankets. “It’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “Everything! It’s always my fault!”

 _Dickie..._ “No, no it’s not, Dick.” He leaned over and then crawled over to where Dick had hurled himself, his hands immediately finding his son’s shaking shoulders and began rubbing them again. “Please.” His voice cracked. Damn. He hated when that happened. “Please, don’t do this to yourself.” _Not again._

 Dick all but screamed into the blanket that he shoved into his mouth, the sound tearing Bruce’s heart in two. “Why does everyone I love have to die?!”

  _Oh baby. I’m sorry, Dickie. I’m so sorry._ He leaned forward so that he was lying on his side, right near his tormented child as his arms wrapped around him once again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling his own eyes beginning to burn. Guilt started in his gut. He remembered the look in the boy’s eyes when he returned form the dead. He knew how much Dick had suffered with his ‘death’. _I hurt you by leaving, by making you think I was dead. By forcing you to be Batman, someone you’re not, because I was too stupid to prevent my getting trapped in the time stream. But don’t blame yourself. Don’t say that everyone you loves will die. Don’t isolate yourself. You did that once, and do you remember how broken you were? Don’t do that to yourself, Dickie…_

 “I got her killed.” Dick’s wail brought Bruce a fresh stab of internal pain. “That guy, he sh-shot her. B-Bruce, oh god, Bruce it… it… god…” Bruce thought he was about to hyperventilate again when the truth came pouring from the child’s mouth. “Bruce, it was my gun! That guy s-shot her with _my gun_!!”

 Bruce felt his blood run cold. _No, no you wouldn’t have been using a gun while Nightwing. I know you wouldn’t have been, so what do you mean?_ “What?” he asked, voice sounding afraid despite his best efforts at the contrary.

Dick buried his head deeper into the mattress, so far that Bruce was forced to gently guide his face upwards before he suffocated himself. The agony that was written across his eldest’s features killed something inside of him. “I-I was on my bike,” he stuttered between tears, blue eyes staring hauntingly at his father. “I was on my bike when I got the message to join t-the team immediately. I parked near the fight zone and got into uniform. B-Bruce, I-I was stupid! I-I-I left my gun on the bike, and didn’t l-lock it. I didn’t lock the gun, Bruce, I left it strapped the bike b-because I rushed into the fight. The guy, the leader of the gang, h-he saw it. He saw it, and grabbed it, and… and…”

Bruce’s body and mind felt numb. _You left the gun you use during your police patrol on your bike and didn’t lock it up? Oh Dick…_ A spark of anger ignited. _Why do these things always have to happen to you? It’s not fair. You’ve already been hurt so bad lately… Baby, Dickie, I’m so sorry. Please, don’t think this was your fault. You should’ve locked the gun, but I was the one that told you the team needed you, that it was an emergency. That probably got you scared, I probably scared you saying that Tim was in danger. Don’t blame yourself, please stop, baby, this will kill you if you keep it up_ … He brought the broken child into a deeper embrace, tensing bitterly when Dick curled up against him, crying, like he used to when he was smaller.

 _Why do these things always happen to the good ones? Dickie, and Tim, and Jason, and Damian… Four boys with no home except for me, the Batman. I could’ve given them so much more… they deserve so much more. Oh Dickie, stop crying like this, you’re going to pass out. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry I scared you so that you didn’t think about locking the gun. I’m sorry that bastard shot the girl you love. I’m sorry I dragged you into this whole crime fighting business in the first place..._ He stopped that thought. _Wait. No I’m not. Because you love being Nightwing, and you loved being Robin. At least, that’s what I see, and what you tell me. You’ve been through so much, Dickie. It’s not fair that you’ve had to lose someone else, and to something that you can so easily blame yourself for._ “This isn’t your fault, Dick. It was the gang leader’s, not yours.” His tone didn’t leave room for the argument he knew his son desperately wanted to lash out.

_Why does it always seem like the world is trying to kill our family specifically?_

They stayed like that for nearly an hour, laying quietly in the darkness while he let Dick fight off the demons inside that tried to drown him inside. The sobs had lessened significantly in terms of strength – at least he wasn’t wracking himself and risking physical harm. Bruce knew now the battle was Dick against the guilt; and he learned a while ago that this was one fight he couldn’t help with. It killed a part of him, but he still clung to his son, his grip never releasing until he heard the frail, shaking voice speak up again. “I’m sorry.”

 _Why are you apologizing to me?_ “There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” he said firmly. _Why do you always take everything upon your own shoulders?_

Fresh tears made an appearance. “I disappointed you.”

Bruce held back from gaping. “Dick, no…”

“I did!” he cried out. “I disappointed you. I became a cop, I took on a job with a gun, you told me not to! If I had listened to you, this wouldn’t have happened.” He buried his face into his father’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Bruce…”

 _No, no, don’t think like that, Dickie, please_. True, a large part of him still wished Dick had taken on a different career. He’d already suffered so many hardships involving the weapon he now carried wherever he went, the cold metal strapped to his son’s hip every time he stepped out the door during the day. It terrified him, knowing that he was now being shot at twice as much as before; but he was neither ashamed nor disappointed in his boy for being self-sacrificing, righteous, not afraid to risk it all for the sake of helping others. No matter what the media and the words Dick spoke now stated, he _was not_ disappointed with his son. No, he was… was…

“Dickie.” Shifting slightly, Bruce moved so he could reach backwards towards the nightstand. Feeling the boy inhale sharply and begin trembling again, he used his other hand to run through his silky hair again, an action he knew calmed the other. “I’m not leaving you, don’t worry. I’m right here, Dick, shhh, it’s okay Dickie…” His fingers clasped around a small metal object, and he grabbed it and returned to his original position. Switching his Iphone on, he waited for it to warm up and then clicked the /MESSAGES/ app.

“Dick, I want to show you something.”

Reluctant, almost as if he were afraid what he’d see when he looked up, Dick raised his head, obviously confused when he saw the mobile device. Bruce glanced at him, and swallowed. Why, why did Dick still have to have those baby blue eyes and small, automatic frown that made him look like a tiny child again? It just made it that much more painful to see the boy suffering. He returned to flipping through his messages, holding the screen so Dick could see them too. “Remember these?”

Dick leaned more into his father’s embrace, so that he was coddled against his side with one arm wrapped firmly around his shoulder. “Yes,” he choked out, voice hoarse and weak.

A few _thousand_ messages were being browsed through – all of them from Richard Grayson’s cell. Looking at a few, Bruce felt his eyes begin to burn up again, and he took a deep breath.

“Remember you sent these to me?” he whispered softly. “Even when I was pronounced dead, you kept my cell service up. Paid it, so that you could keep on texting me. Remember?” A small nod was the response, so he continued, “I kept every single one of these when I bought that new phone with you. Each and every single one, because when I read them, I get to catch up on that one year I missed out on your life.”*

The texts ranged all over the place. _‘I miss you, Bruce’. ‘Damian kicked butt on patrol today. You’d be proud’. ‘Come back, god-damn it!’ ‘I love you, Bruce’. ‘I really wish you were here’._ They went on and on and on. Bruce clicked a few, his heart clenching a bit with each heartbroken message his son had sent to him during his ‘death’. _Oh Dickie…_ He tightened his grip on the boy, shuddering a teeny bit when he felt just how thin and, well, small his oldest son was. He was tall but with his fair complexion, lean form, and those endearing eyes… It almost seemed like Nightwing, son the Bat, was a boy made of glass. He’d been a frail child when he was first taken in as a foster son, flexible because he was acrobat but not very strong; eventually growing strong as Robin… But Dick still held that gentle, lithe features that made Bruce sometimes wonder if he would find his son shattered. This fear had taken place full force when he heard how broken Dick had been, kneeling there at his grave, sending him texts that he, at the time, had known would never be answered.

Jason, the second child, was headstrong, fierce, a tiger. Tim was shy but calculating, inevitably going to be just as tall as Jason and Bruce, maybe more. And Damian, no doubt, would one day be an exact replica of the Batman.

But Dick? Dick was unique. Dick was strong, quick, lethal; but at the same time, he was fragile, vulnerable, breakable. And yet he still risked everything when he went out as Nightwing. Bruce felt that same warm, fuzzy feeling near his heart when he thought about it.

He scrolled down further through the messages, and there. He’d found the one he was looking for. He clicked it, and felt Dick tense near him. He rubbed his back, soothing him, before reading if out loud, voice almost impossibly soft for the man who went by the alias the Dark Knight:

_‘Hey, guess what? We put the Joker behind bars, me and Dami. I think you’d be happy how we handled it, and the clown never knew I wasn’t the real Batman… but… Bruce, I’ll never be you. No matter how hard I try, I’m afraid I’ll always disappoint you. I never had the courage to ask you before, and now I never will, but… Are you proud of me, Dad?’_

There was a lengthy period of silence, as Bruce reread the message to himself afterwards. The text dated about six months after his ‘death’. After a minute or two, he had the courage to look at Dick, who had curled up even smaller by his side (if possible) and looked on the verge of tears again.

Bruce put the phone down and wrapped his other arm around him, resting his chin on the boy’s head. He thought for another minute before swallowing hard, shooting a quick prayer upwards, and then spoke. “I am proud of you, Dick,” he managed. _I’m no good at this kind of stuff, but I have to say it._ “I have never been more proud of anyone in my entire life.” _I’m proud of Damian and Tim and heck, even Jason too; but this talk is for Dickie._ “I knew you were special when I first saw you flying up there with your parents.” His throat began to throb and threatened to close up. _Oh damn_. He felt wet tears try to spill from his eyes, so he quickened his speech.

“I took you in because I… I was already proud of you. Dick, I was proud of you for having the courage to fly with your parents. And then I was proud because you kept it together after they died, and after that, when you had the courage to confront me with my identity as Batman and _demand_ you get to help. I’ve watched you train and grow and become your own man. And Dick…” A tear escaped. _Damn it._ He tensed, and suddenly, he lowered his head, burying his face in his son’s mop of hair, as black as night. “I am proud of you. So, so proud of you. And I don’t care if you make mistakes, because everyone does. And it hurts me when you blame yourself for things like tonight because I know you feel like you’ve disappointed me. And you haven’t. You haven’t…”

Somewhere during the past few moments, Dick had reached out and was clinging to Bruce’s front, hoping beyond hope this wasn’t a dream. “Y-Your proud of me?” He didn’t want to hope, because if he had heard wrong, if this wasn’t real… He might just die. Right then and there.

But the words he heard confirmed the skipping in his heart. “Yes, Dickie, I’m so very proud of you…”

“…and tonight hurt. I know it hurt. I hurt me too, because you loved her. And it will keep on hurting, but someday, someday it _will_ stop, or at least lessen. You may not believe me now, but the pain won’t last forever. I’ve seen you push through the impossible, and I’ll help you through this one. But don’t ever doubt that I am proud of you again, because I am…”

“…Life does terrible things, and I hate that you’ve experienced so much of it. I hate it. Because you… Dick, you mean so much to me. So please, don’t blame yourself for tonight, and don’t feel hurt that you don’t hear these words too often. It… It isn’t easy for me. But, I assure you, I’m proud of you, Dickie, and… And Batman is proud of who his little Robin has become. Batman is proud of Nightwing, I promise.”

Dick was crying again, but not the violent, deadly sobs that sent fear into his heart. These tears seemed full of relief, and disbelief, and maybe even a bit of joy. Because Dick was no longer just clinging to him but embracing him, shoving his face into his neck and inhaling deeply, nestling against the man. Bruce felt he might join in the weeping if he continued, and knowing he’d said everything he had to, he remained silent and let Dick say his thank you without words as the boy leaned into his touch.

Five minutes later, the young man’s breathing was slow and even, except for the small hiccup every now and then. Bruce remained awake, still holding and gently rocking his son, his mind ablaze with the words he had just spoken. _Did I really just say all that? I… I’ve never done or said anything like that in years… I’m surprised I didn’t screw it up, make it worse. Did it work? It seems like it did. He’s asleep. I used to sneak in his room just to watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful now. If only there were so many tear stains on his face… it makes him look older. But he’s still peaceful._ He stared up at the ceiling. _Did I do the right thing? I exposed my feelings, expressed full emotion? Was that the right thing to do?_

And then, almost on cue, he heard a barely audible mumble.

“Love you, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes snapped downwards, only to see Dick was still deep in sleep. Once realizing this, muscles relaxed, eyes began to grow heavy, and then, just before slumber came, Bruce found himself muttering words he hadn’t spoken ever since seeing his parents murdered over two decades.

“I love you too, Dick.”


End file.
